


Language Lessons, 16: matabicho (1200 words)

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Language Lessons [16]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: 1 Sentence Fiction, Languages, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-12
Updated: 2005-10-12
Packaged: 2018-11-12 12:10:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	Language Lessons, 16: matabicho (1200 words)

  
  
Jack Sparrow came awake gradually, horizontal sunlight hot and bright on his face, the swaying, sliding dance of his dear _Pearl_ gentling him up through the warm shadowy shallows of sleep, all manner of delicious aching, burning, itching sensations and scents reminding him of his body, and, mmm, of the fabulously filthy activities of the night now passed: though, damn it, even with his eyes closed, even without stretching out a hand across the width of their broad shared bunk or rolling over, fighting with the tangle of the threadbare, roughly-patched sheet, he knew for sure that Jack Shaftoe, perpetrator and enthusiastic co-respondee in those activities, was no longer in bed at Jack's side, where (if Jack were to have his way, and not just in a basely carnal fashion neither) he'd stay forever, or at least 'til grudgingly permitted to leave -- damn the man, would he never relinquish these Vagabondish desires for activity and action, in favour of the more decadently languorous lifestyle of a fearsomely successful and infamously well-travelled pirate? --and Jack, while wholly incapable (not a fact he advertised, but he was sure Shaftoe'd guessed it by now) of refusing his love any stray whim, any casual urge that might occur to him -- more than a few of those urges, after all, were remarkably congruent with Jack's own -- would, if asked (and possibly even if not), have waxed voluble on the subject of the sheer physical _luxury_ of waking next to Jack Shaftoe, pressed close against him, never mind tropical heat or clammy monsoon or creeping damp or anything beyond this bed of theirs; of being able to stretch out lazily and put his hand to Shaftoe's bare skin, being able to elicit a sleepy growl or a murmured invitation to _do that again, Jack_ , or a reciprocal touch, a touch that never failed to spark Jack's passions no matter how fervent the preceding bout of nocturnal depravities and delights had been: Jack stretched out lazily, focussing on the vivid sense-memories of Shaftoe's _fervour_ , mouth and hands and, mmm, fingers, last night; excellent talisman, those memories and aches were, 'gainst the lingering fear (nah, not really fear, not now, not any more: more like an instinctual and illogical anxiety) that Shaftoe might've gone off again, never to return, "but," mused Jack to himself, eyes still closed 'gainst the dazzling ripply light of what promised to be a scorching morning -- where were they now, somewhere off Johanna? -- "we're on a _ship_ , in the middle of the _ocean_ , and there ain't so very many places a man can run to, even the self-'claimed greatest Vagabond of 'em all, so --" and then his thoughts were disrupted by some outcry outside the cabin, the sound of men's voices raised in argument (though not, it had to be said, in very _argumentative_ argument: the heat took it out of you, after all) nearby: Jack listened, and could make out only some nonsense words, and a few scraps of what sounded strangely like Portuguese -- ah, but they had trading-posts in these parts, did they not? -- and somewhere amid the racket, Jack Shaftoe's powerful voice, the rough nasal London vowels somewhat smoothed by a year and more away from the slums of Wapping, offering cheerful obscenities to someone named José and surely, 'less Jack'd ended up sleeping the wrong way 'round in the bed (it'd happened more than once, when the lanthorn had guttered before they were done and the two of them, mouths on one another, had mislaid their orientations as they'd lain there gasping, after) the voices were coming from somewhere _outside_ the ... Jack opened his eyes, blinking, just in time to see the door (in its accustomed place) open, and Jack Shaftoe shoulder his way into the cabin with an armful of items brightly coloured enough to make Jack wish he'd kept his eyes shut -- there'd been a sufficiency of rum last night, along with more exclusive pleasures -- and beaming that broad, satisfied smile at Jack as he lay there on the bed; "natives," he explained, "in them little canoes they have, what d'you call 'em, pirogues; wanted to sell us all manner of stuff, better than a market and no doubt twice as pricey; but I reckoned you might care for a little refreshment, eh? a little **matabicho** ;" and, with a sly grin at Jack's evident befuddlement, he began to deposit his purchases on the dirty linen that, more or less, covered Jack's privities; there were mangoes, and breadfruit, and something darkly charred that smelt, when Jack scooped it up and brought it close to his face, of bread; there was a narrow-necked glass bottle -- one of the _Black Pearl_ 's empties, no doubt; always handy for collecting samples of the local brew -- full of some promisingly murky umber liquid, and a few leathery strips of dried meat: and best of all, there was Jack Shaftoe, disappointingly clad in breeches (though thankfully not in anything else) disposing himself on that part of the bed upon which Jack was not sprawled, seizing a riband of this last, and chewing heartily upon it with every evidence of enjoyment: but his sidelong gaze was fixed on Jack, who sighed and said, "perhaps you'd better _educate_ me, Mr Shaftoe, as to the meaning of **matabicho** , you being so very educational in so many other ways: and what _is_ that stuff, anyway?" to which Shaftoe responded only with an indistinct mumble, and then, at Jack's rolled eyes, a flapping gesture; "bird?" guessed Jack, and Shaftoe shook his head, swallowed twice, and grinned; "bat," he corrected, "fried bat; and **matabicho** , as I'm surprised you aren't already aware, is the word in these parts for _breakfast_ , Captain Sparrow: means kill-the-beast, far as I can tell;" Jack said, "beast, eh? well, I feel as though I've been _struggling_ with one, in the night," and Shaftoe laughed out loud and slapped Jack's bare hip, and retorted, "you calling me a beast?", an insult which had not hitherto occurred to Jack but, now that he thought on't, seemed terribly apt; "aye, Mr Shaftoe; quite beastly, you were ... mmm, bestial, even ..." to which Shaftoe, shifting to straddle Jack's thighs with only two layers of cloth (and perhaps a stray slice of bat) separating skin from skin, said, " _I_ wasn't the one as was biting, mate," and leant down to remedy this imbalance, nipping at Jack's lip with a mouth that tasted of citrus and smoke: Jack, writhing with care so's not to squash too much of breakfast -- **matabicho** \-- against himself (though, mmm, p'rhaps Shaftoe would feel obliged to lick off any sticky messes that might result) suffered this indignity in enthusiastic near-silence, save for the occasional moan, until Shaftoe rose up again, haloed by sunlight, looking positively beatific (well, if you excluded the bit about religion) and Jack was free to prop himself up on one elbow, take a swig of whatever was in the round-bottomed bottle -- Christ, it tasted foul, and without any redeeming fire -- and advise Jack Shaftoe that he'd better eat up: "'cause, Jack, you'll be needing all your strength for what _I_ have in mind for you."


End file.
